With my index finger, I press on the cuticle of my thumb. Nail against skin, it peels back. I don't feel pain. Pain is an explosion. This is just an eyelash, shed and sliding down my cheek.
My other hand steers the car. I crest the hill. A small cross marks the scene of a news story I read nearly a year ago. Even at 60mph, the fresh flowers blaze against the white of the cross.
I continue worrying the skin on my thumb. It doesn't bleed.